


A Bushel and a Peck

by bouncingclowns



Series: Rosalind Universe [1]
Category: Ratched (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff, little babies adopt a little baby (-:, well not a BABY, youll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:29:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27256480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bouncingclowns/pseuds/bouncingclowns
Summary: Based on a Tumblr prompt. Mildred and Gwen adopt a child.
Relationships: Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched
Series: Rosalind Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026480
Comments: 30
Kudos: 122





	A Bushel and a Peck

Gwendolyn hadn’t meant to say it, really she hadn’t, but there with the glow of morning filtering through their bedroom window, and Mildred’s bare legs tangled with hers, it just sort of slipped out.

“A child?” Mildred’s hair fell across her bare shoulders. Pieces of it fluttered across her forehead when she shot up to meet Gwen’s pale blue gaze. “I don’t even know how that would ... work.”

It was humor ... sort of. Mildred had admitted to Gwendolyn before that she lacked much schooling. Her capacity to read, while far beyond what it should be thanks to her own inherent curiosity, did not often bring her to books on reproduction. Truth be told, the thought scared Mildred. It reminded her of her own childhood, a time which she preferred to keep in the past. More than that, though, it reminded her of what Mildred still often considered her own depravity, for even with the profound love she held for her Gwen, it went against everything she had ever been taught was good.

“You’re a regular comediene this morning.” Gwendolyn exhaled a puff of smoke as she dabbed her cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table. “I’ve been talking to Trevor. I didn’t want to say anything until he was sure, but he’s willing to help us forge the papers for an adoption.”

Adoption. The word hangs in the air like a noose. Mildred’s lower lip catches between her teeth. Menthol mingles with the sweet and slightly tangy scent of Gwendolyn’s breath. It wafts across her, but it does not bring its usual sense of ease. Mildred watches the smoke leave Gwen’s lips in a milky cloud, before breaking off into tendrils that seem to taunt her with their ability to disappear.

Gwendolyn waves a hand in front of her face, muscles tensing like she’s about to stand. “It was just a thought. Call it a daydream. Forget I said anything.”

“Alright.”

“Come again?”

Mildred takes the cotton of their sheets between her thumb and forefinger and twirls it until the fabric is stiff. A seagull caws somewhere beyond their balcony, shrieks with an errant caw before it too fades into the distance.

“If it means that much to you, then, alright. Talk to Trevor.”

Gwendolyn smiles at her, warmer than the glow of morning, more honest than anything Mildred can even begin to name. She takes her chin in the palm of her hand, kisses her until Mildred is certain she can feel her heartbeat through the soft flesh of her lips.

“Oh.” Gwen breathes against her, still smiling, still holding Mildred’s face. “I’ll call him today. If you’re sure, that is.”

“I am.”

She’s not, but Mildred’s learned to jump off cliffs so long as she’s holding Gwendolyn’s hand.

***

Gwen takes on the majority of the adoption process. She files papers, makes calls, she talks to agencies and foster parents, and she does it all with a sense of wonder vibrating off her. It reverberates off the walls of her study when Mildred brings her a sandwich for lunch. Gwendolyn offers her a grunt of thanks as she adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose.

Gwen’s study reminds Mildred of a museum. Books and papers litter every surface. There is no discernable organization as far as she can tell, but the older woman assures her that everything is exactly where she wants it. Bookshelves are built into the wall behind Gwendolyn’s desk from the ceiling to the floor. Every inch of it is used. Sometimes Mildred wonders if she’s actually read everything in here, but she fears it a silly question, and hasn’t had the courage to ask.

“This is good.” Gwen says with a mouthful of peanut butter and white bread, and a pen still poised in her hand.

“What is this?” Mildred comes to perch on the arm of her chair.

Gwen places her arm on Mildred’s hip to keep them both from teetering over. It’s become part of their routine, since Gwendolyn’s work often follows her home. Mildred’s does too, but not in the tangible form of paperwork.

“Just some files.” Gwen replies.

Mildred’s gaze follows the redheads downwards. Before her lays a pile of exactly what she’d promised: files, but not just any files. Mildred recognizes them as casefiles for children, each one with a photo stapled to the front. She cringes, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her forest green skirt. If Gwendolyn notices the change in the air around her, she doesn’t say, too enrapt in what she’s reading.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Gwendolyn murmurs as she takes another bite of her sandwich. Mildred nods.

The child is, in fact, beautiful, Mildred supposes she’s around seven. Her bright eyes are wide and bewildered, her lips pout into that dull, emotionless expression which she herself had learned to perfect. Gwendolyn doesn’t see this, of course. To her, the child is simply a child: simply young, simply beautiful, and why shouldn’t she be? Mildred can’t help the envy which tinged in her, the yearning strapped across her chest. How she wishes she could look at a child and see only that. She is burdened with knowing.

***

Her name is Rosalind, but the caseworker says that she goes by Rosie for short. At nine years old, the girl stands before the two women with the weight of the world strapped to her back. Gwendolyn offers her a smile, and invites her inside. Mildred can do little more than stare.

“You can put your things in here.” Gwendolyn opens the door to their guest bedroom turned children’s room.

The older woman had spent the week following their application being approved repainting walls and refurbishing the almost completely abandoned space until it was something out of a fairytale. Now, basking in the early afternoon light, the white canopy bed looks large enough to swallow the little whisp of a girl in front of Mildred whole.

Mildred watches as Rosie trails her finger along the comforter, watches the way she swallows back a smile on her pale lips, the way her light eyes spark with some amalgam of fear and enthrallment. Her fair hair is pulled into a tight plait against her back. Her full cheeks hold the familiar pinkness that came with being pinched, Mildred recalls from her own adoption day. A dusting of freckles dapples the bridge of her ornate nose. She looks more like a doll than a a real, human child. Were it not for the way her breath catches when Gwen asks how she likes it, Mildred isn’t sure she could tell the difference.

“I like very much.” Rosie’s voice is level, and gives no indication of emotion. “Thank you, Miss Briggs, Miss Ratched.”

Gwendolyn’s brow furrows. “You don’t have to call us that, you know. My name is Gwendolyn, Gwen for short, and this is Mildred.” She smiles warmly, if not a little self consciously.

Rosalind’s pale eyes flick between the two women before landing on Mildred. Something settles in the woman’s stomach as she watches the girl watch her. It’s as if she knows, Mildred thinks, as if she can feel their kindrencd. Mildred clasps her hands in front of her.

“Well, we’ll leave you to get settled, then.” Gwen smiles again after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. Otherwise, dinner is at 6:30.”

She turns to leave, and Mildred follows suit. She can feel Rosie’s eyes burning against the back of her neck.

“Odd girl, isn’t she?” Gwendolyn whispers once their out of earshot.

Mildred isn’t sure, so she nods by way of agreement.

***

The first week is spent with an heir of discomfort which Gwendolyn cannot wrap her head around. Mildred watches her pace the length of their bedroom, fingers pinching her chin and eyes smouldering the hardwood floor.

“Honestly, I just never expected her to be so ...” She gestures emphatically when she can’t find the words. “I mean really, Mildred, I don’t think I’ve seen her smile once. Have you?”

Mildred bites the inside of her cheek, swallowing the amusement rising in her chest, but she shakes her head. “She needs time, Gwen. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“I’m not building a goddamn city, though. I’m just trying to get to know the poor thing.” Gwendolyn groans. Their bed lets out a little “oof” as she lands against it with her full weight.

There, splayed out on her back with her arms stretched out on either side, Mildred takes the opportunity to press a light peck to her lips. Gwendolyn had been tireless in her efforts, wasting no expense in trying to relate to their young ward. It was endearing, if not a bit overzealous. Mildred didn’t have the heart to suggest that she let Rosalind come to her.

“I just ... thought this would be easier.” Gwen whines when Mildred is through kissing her. She looks up at the younger woman, her eyes as deep as the navy covers of the books she so desperately clung to. “I’ve never seen a child be so ... so indifferent.” Mildred tries to disguise the wince which her choice of words elicits, but she feels Gwen shift beneath her, and knows it’s too late. “What is it?”

“I can’t say for sure.” Mildred sighs, as though she’s expecting Gwendolyn to relinquish the question, which she does not. “It was often better to be quiet to be seen in ... in the homes I was placed in. You learn quickly to stay level, to swallow anything that could make you stand out for any reason. It’s easier that way ... safer, even.”

When Gwendolyn doesn’t respond, she thinks she’s said something wrong. Mildred sets her jaw. Her gaze trails to the fireplace, and she thinks that it will be cold enough to start using within the next few weeks.

“God, I’m an idiot.”

Mildred snaps her eyes back to Gwen, whose palms are now pressing against either eye with a deep frown creasing her features.

“You are not.” Mildred is quick to soothe.

“Oh, I am so!” Gwendolyn flips onto her stomach, perching herself up on her elbows to look at her in earnest. “What would you have wanted? If you were in her position, that is. What would have made it better?”

Mildred ponders that. She had never considered what she would have wanted, really. Her cards had been dealt, the dye cast, as it were. It felt almost futile to consider what could have been when her reality had been so far from anything remotely warm. Here, though, warmed under Gwendolyn’s earnest gaze, she considers.

“Nothing, I suppose.” Mildred answers honestly. “I don’t think anything could take away what I ...” She sucks in a breath, and Gwendolyn’s fingers find hers. “Nothing can take away from those memories, from those places, but there are ways to learn to endure the fallout.” Mildred meets her eyes. “Don’t give up on her; promise me you won’t.”

Gwendolyn smiles, tears turning her lash line red. She nods, she kisses Mildred, she offers a silent promise to stay the course.

***

It had started out innocent enough. Dinner, and a waning conversation about how Rosalind was enjoying school. She had responded with a shrug, and a “well enough” as she pushed a few pieces of chicken around with her fork. True to her sense of duty, Gwendolyn had pressed on. She spoke of her own day, asked Mildred of her’s. She discussed whatever book she had been reading, what she was looking forward to that weekend. Rosalind had listened like a machine created to do exactly that. When the two women had finished what was on their plates, she asked to be excused. Gwendolyn had exhaled heavily, her blue eyes going a little dull, but nodded her consent.

It had taken all of four seconds: two to push her chair back, one to spin on her heels, and a final to topple over herself and send her plate shattering against the floor.

“I’m ... I’m sorry.” Rosie breathed, her eyes going wide.

Mildred tenses at the way she scrambles to pick up the broken shards with her bare hands. She collects them with more speed than caution, and it only bodes consequences. Rosie hisses, flinching as her knee is impaled with one of the pieces.

“It’s alright, dear.” Gwendolyn murmured, her amusement giving way to something darker when Rosie ignores the blood pooling against her school dress. “Here, let me help you.”

“No, _please!_ ” The pieces of China clatter against the floor once more as the girl whirls around.

Rosie brings her palms across her face, her body tenses in on itself as if she’s waiting for a blow. Gwendolyn stutters. Mildred sets her jaw.

“Rosie, it’s just a plate.” Gwendolyn soothes.

Mildred wants to tell her not to come any closer, but then the older woman’s arms are hooking underneath Rosie’s shoulders. Rosie shrieks, eyes screwing shut. She kicks against the air and manages to land a blow directly against Gwendolyn’s chest. The redhead staggers backward clutching her right shoulder. Her eyes flick to Mildred, a silent plea crossing her features.

Mildred has half a mind to run, and half a mind to cower right along next to Rosalind. She doesn’t, of course. Sidestepping broken glass, she comes to kneel a foot away from the girl. Mildred doesn’t speak, not at first, just watches the girl pant and pull her knees against her chest. She’s mumbling something under her breath, and Mildred can only assume she’s begging for mercy.

“I was in charge of cleaning up after a family, once.” Mildred starts. Her voice is even, crackling with the weight of rememberance. Gwendolyn steps back so she’s practically touching the wall. “There was so many children in that house. So many children, but I was the oldest, so I took on the more difficult tasks. One night, after supper, I was washing one of the serving bowls. I had gotten soap all over myself, and I tripped off the stool. The bowl broke my fall.”

Mildred rolls up a sleeve, revealing the flesh of her left arm. She points to a a scar, about three inches in length, and silver with time travels the from the bend of her elbow to the middle of her forearm. Unable to contain her curiosity, Rosalind peaks around her knees with a furrowed brow. Mildred tries to smile, but it settles as more of a grimace.

“The woman of the house — oh, she was especially awful — he was so cross with me. She chased me around with a wooden spoon until she caught me. I wasn’t allowed to eat for three days after that. If I was clumsy enough to break it, then the money it took to keep me there would pay for the replacement.”

Gwendolyn watches as Rosie comes to mirror the way that Mildred is kneeling. The girl stares at the scar for a moment before taking Mildred’s wrist in meek hands, tracing the length of it. Mildred’s eyes flutter, breath hitching for just a moment. She presses it out between her lips. She catches Rosalind’s gaze.

“You have been told that you must be perfect, or pay the price. You have been taught that any misstep, any folly, warrants only the cruelest reaction, is that right?”

Rosie nods. Mildred nods.

“You will find no such treatment here. Gwen and I want you here because we want to be a family. We want to share the life that we created together. You are not expected to be anything other than who you are, Rosalind.”

Rosie ponders this, pale eyes twisting. Her fingers stay clasped to Mildred’s wrist. Mildred knows she’s not sure whether to believe her. She knows because she’s not sure she would have either at her age. Not after what she had bore witness to.

“Are you and Miss Gwen married?”

The question catches Mildred off guard in its innocence. She flushes and dares to press a finger to the girl’s cheek. Mildred’s eyes glint with something akin to affection.

“No, sweetheart. Although, we do love each other very much. The way that some women might feel about a man. Do you understand?” Rosie nods. “Good. Here, let’s get you a bandage for that knee.”

***

It is a year that tests each of their patience. Gwendolyn learns through experience the ways which best suit Rosalind. Rosalind, in turn, starts to open. She cracks a small smile here and there, she even shares in the teasing banter which is so commonplace between the two women.

On the eve of her tenth birthday, they take her to see Guys and Dolls — her first picture. Rosalind’s eyes light up. She stares in wonder as Marlon Brando and Jean Simmons kiss in Cuba. She hums what she remembers of the score on the car ride home, until she’s exhausted herself. Gwendolyn carries her inside, takes off her shoes, her socks, and dresses her in a nightgown with the utmost care. She tucks her into bed. Mildred sees her place a kiss against Rosie’s forehead when she thinks no one is watching. She smiles.

When Rosie wakes the next morning, she is met with an unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable scent. She tears off the covers, descending the stairs with bare feet. Downstairs, the house bustles with a soft of monotony that she is slowly learning to find comfort in. She finds Gwen and Mildred in the kitchen — Gwen sipping coffee with a newspaper practically touching her forehead, and Mildred over the stove. When Rosie sits down, Mildred places a plate in front of her. Rosie’s nose scrunches when she doesn’t recognize the thin, golden, dough like objects in front of her.

“Try them before they get cold.” Gwendolyn suggests over her morning paper, so Rosalind does.

Saturated with syrup, the pancakes taste more like maple than the sourness of buttermilk, not that Rosie knows the difference. She’s never had one before. She scarfs down two, practically inhales them in a single swallow.

Mildred can’t help a little hum of amusment as she places a third on the girl’s plate. “They’re better when you actually take the time to taste them, you know.”

“Sorry.” Rosie manages with the meager space left in her mouth. She swallows hard and sucks in a deep breath.

She eats the third one, but takes Mildred’s words to heart, slowing long enough to revel in the distinct texture, the way the little bubbles of air seem to crackle against the roof of her mouth as she chews. It’s like nothing she’s ever tasted before. She spends the rest of the morning in a fuzzy haze, the scent of butter and sugar dancing across her nose. She reminds herself to ask Mildred to teach her to make them.

“Happy birthday, Rosie.” Gwen pushes a little box across the breakfast table. Her newspaper is folder beside her, leaving her gaze intent and eager.

Rosalind takes the box, eyes flicking to Mildred who nods before seating herself next to Gwendolyn. She presses a kiss to the older woman’s cheek, but otherwise says nothing. Rosie’s fingers trail across the silver wrapping paper for a moment, grazing the textured material. Her heart pounds, blood rushing through her ears. She’s not sure why she’s nervous, only knows that she is. She’s never been given a gift before. She’s not sure what comes next.

“Well, open it!” Gwendolyn muses like her internal monologue is as clear as the radio.

With painful intention, Rosie’s finger latches onto a piece of tape and rips it open. She can’t fathom ruining such pretty paper. When Gwendolyn starts to tell her not to worry, Mildred squeezes her shoulder and offers her a gentle look. Give her time, she seems to say, and Gwen swallows her impatience.

Rosie opens the box to reveal a silver chain with a heart shaped locket. She gasps, eyes shimmering, seeming to deepen ever so slightly.

“Open it.” Gwendolyn says again when Rosie traces the carving of the heart.

“By ... I already did.”

Gwen laughs. “The locket, silly, open the locket!”

When Rosie offers her an inquiring look, Gwen sighs and takes the necklace from its resting place. The girl watches with breathless fascination as Gwendolyn’s fingers find a small groove on the side of the heart-shaped locket, and it pops open. She slides it back over so that it’s facing her. Rosie leans down. Inside are two photos: one of Mildred and Gwendolyn, and the other of her. Rosie’s throat tightens.

“I figured when we finally have a photo of the three of us, we can replace it and — _oof!_ ” Gwendolyn’s words are cut off when she feels a pocket of warmth slam against her chest. She sits there, stunned for a moment. Once accustomed to the sensation of Rosie’s arms around her waist, her tears on the shoulder of her pajamas, Gwen smiles. Her heart loosens a little, and she hugs her back.

“Thank you.” Rosie whispers, swallowing against the sobs teetering against her lower lip. She thinks she’s never been quite this happy, thinks maybe she didn’t even know what happiness was until now. Gwendolyn doesn’t answer, she just holds her, pressing one palm to the back of her head.

People say you only live once, but people are as wrong about that as they are about anything.


End file.
